We Take Care of Our Own
by witchfire24
Summary: "We take care of our own." A 20-year-old Aragorn leaves Rivendell and stops in a wayside inn, where he receives a lesson in the surprisingly selfless ways of the rangers - a lesson given in the dark and entirely against his will. Of this he's almost completely quite certain. Warning: Slash, dub-con, pure PWP.


**A young Aragorn leaves Rivendell and stays at what I like to think of as the Middle Earth YMCA. ** **I make no claims as to my little one-shot's worthiness as a piece of art, literature, or anything else of any value. In fact, I would go so far as to state the opposite.**

* * *

><p>It was late when I arrived at the inn, long past moonrise, but the road was full of travelers at this time of year and the inn was full of men laughing and talking and eating and drinking—mainly drinking. But it would be the first time I'd have a roof over my head in over a month, and the heavy skies threatened rain, so after a moment of hesitation at the sight of the crowd I entered and ordered some food.<p>

There were no quiet corners to retire to after my meal, so I sat in the corner with my hood over face and smoked my pipe and thought of Arwen.

Did she even remember me? Asking one such as her to remember me was like asking me to remember a barmaid I had once smiled at—well, had I ever smiled at a barmaid, that is. I am not much of a smiler, and this was only the third inn I had been in.

It was dim and smoky inside the room, and I must have been lonely and homesick for the sweet clear air and open spaces of Rivendell, because when a man sat down beside me with two mugs of beer I actually let him strike up a conversation instead of smoking my pipe at him in silence.

The man was handsome, not in the dainty elvin way I was used to, but in a battered rugged way that spoke of a long time on the road and many adventures. He told me he was a ranger, and I believed him. His arms were lean and muscular, with tight leather bands around his forearms like pauldrons, and carried a well-used bow and a long knife. He was dressed in muted greens and browns, and I could imagine him slipping elf-like through a forest, silent and unseen.

Despite his experience he didn't look very much older than me, but I felt like a sheltered child as I sat beside him and had my first real drink and listened to him talk of orcs and goblins and towering black mountains full of sleeping dragons guarding golden treasure.

I don't know how long it was after that I found myself on my straw pallet, wrapped in my cloak, hot and heavy and drifting in and out of confused dreams. I was dimly aware of being surrounded by many bodies, and I could hear the patter of rain on the rooftop. The fire had died down to mere red embers, but the room was warm and I was about to dig deeper into my bundled cloak and sleep off the alcohol when I felt something touch my leg.

I opened my eyes fully. A dark shape was kneeling beside me in the darkness.

"Shhh," it said, and I recognized the ranger's voice. I strained to see him through the darkness and slight blur to my vision, and I could see him faintly in the light of the dying fire, the red light softening his face slightly and glinting off his deep green eyes. "I mean you no harm, friend."

The elves could at time be insufferably superior, never losing an opportunity to gossip about what they called "the follies of man," and growing up I had heard stories of what went on in men's lodgings, in inns and in way-houses. _Overheard_, rather, for Elrond wouldn't have approved of me listening to such tales.

I tried to scramble away, but the beer—it couldn't have just been beer; liquor, perhaps?—still ran like liquid lead through my veins and weighed me to the straw palette as if my muscles had turned to chicken mash.

The ranger brushed the overgrown hair back from my eyes.

"I don't wish to harm you," he repeated, touching my cheek. His skin was rough and warm. He moved my cloak aside and trailed the crook of his finger over my crotch.

"Don't do that!" I managed. It came out in a croaking sort of whisper.

He looked at me pitying. "How long has it been?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Please. Go."

"You told me everything last night, friend. You are one of us, a man of the North, and we take care of our own."

I gathered my strength and was able to move my hand enough to grab his wrist. "Stop! I am nothing like you. I do not wish this, I do not wish for you to…"

But even as I spoke I could feel his hand unlacing the front of my leather traveling trousers and reaching inside.

"You give me much to work with, I see," he said with a twitch of his lips, looking down at the thick white _thing_ in his hand. I gasped at his touch and released his wrist. "You will be very popular when you finally join us, friend."

"Don't—don't—let go of my—of _it_—"

" 'It'?" He gave me a questioning look, then seemed to realize something and pulled an almost comical look entirely at odds with what he was doing. "Ah. I always wondered how it was amongst the elves. Uptight prigs. I daresay you need this more than I thought."

And he began to stroke my—

"It's called a cock," he said helpfully.

—my _thing_ as I squeezed my eyes shut again and dragged my leaden arms up to cover my burning face.

The ranger wore fingerless leather gloves, the palms worn smooth with wear, but he started with the rough tips of his long calloused fingers instead. He let go of my—my _member_ and gently touched the hair at the base of my—my _cock_, brushing it just enough to awaken it. Physically, Arwen hadn't inspired anything more in me than a worshiping awe of her beauty, a deep appreciation of the delicate lines of her face and dark ripples of her hair. She was perfect, immortal; I had barely dared think of even stealing a chaste kiss from those soft pink lips.

But this—_this_ had nothing to do with beauty, or love or sweetness or elf-light, and I didn't understand why I felt a tingle of something I suddenly realized was pleasure along my cock's shaft.

I could feel it harden like someone was filling up a waterskin as the ranger started to rub my sensitive flesh with his rough calloused fingers. Their roughness overstimulated my virgin skin, firing every inch of by body with a painful longing I didn't understand or know how to fully hide.

He touched the soft leather palm of his other hand to the dripping tip of my cock, moving his hand in a circle so that I drew a wet circle on his palm, and I couldn't hold back a whimpering moan.

The moan seemed to awaken my conscience, and I tried to roll away. "I'm—I'm—"

"You're as hard as a rock, that's what you are, my young friend," said the ranger, placing his hand on my chest to keep me still. His deep voice was low and thrumming and I imagined I could feel the vibrations running down his hand and over my hot pulsing cock. "Just relax. You can't hold out much longer, you know." He chuckled. "Or perhaps you _don't_ know."

"I'm—you're a _man_—this is wrong—_perverse_—"

"Of course it is," he said, and he bent forward and closed his mouth over my engorged cock.

I looked around desperately to make sure that nobody was watching my humiliation. It was hard to see in the dying light, but I _thought_ everyone lay still—

His tongue lapped at the juices that ran down my cock and licked the sides almost delicately, his hand rubbing the inside of my thigh as he sucked at the tip with his hot wet mouth. His dark curly head was bobbing up and down like a woodpecker, his movements growing more and more frantic as my cock grew thicker and hotter, as if my desperate shameful need and desire for that deep dark something I still didn't understand had inflamed him through the liquid flowing from my cock and down his throat—

_His throat, his hot ridged throat_; I could feel the tip of my cock thrust down deep upon it, gagging it him; and I cried out as a sudden rush of hot filthy pleasure rushed through me and spurted out down his gullet.

The ranger stopped moving, then swallowed and straightened up and pulled my cloak over my still-stiff cock.

Others were stirring nearby, roused by my cry. The ranger was chuckling softly. He patted my shoulder and melted away in the shadows.

My arms belonged to me again. I pulled my cloak over my face, hoping my burning shame would burn the memory of what had happened away, then finally slipped my shaking hands down to my trousers and put my cock away.


End file.
